


Birds of a Feather

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Red Team Centric, Slow Burn, Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27050407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: “Simmons, you’re the smart one,” Grif says and trails a finger along the feather, “so how come you’re always being so stupid?”“I don’t know. How come you won’t get off my ass?”(The answer to both of these questions is, of course, love.)A story about colored armor and wings and idiots in love. But mostly about the idiots.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons
Comments: 56
Kudos: 98





	1. Feather

Simmons pops into his vision with an angry frown and a dark feather between his fingers.

Grif, interrupted in the middle of his breakfast, hides a grin. Simmons is upset – that much is obvious from the red splotches on his cheeks and the feathers that stand on end on the wings that peek over the armored shoulder plates – and that’s an opportunity Grif can’t leave alone.

“What’s this?”

“A feather.”

“Are you colorblind?”

Grif squirms in his seat. “Why are you asking me this?”

“It’s brown.”

It sure is. It’s on the dark end of the color scheme, darker than the cliffs surrounding Blood Gulch. It’s the sort of color that can be found in Grif’s scapulars, the ones closest to his skin, and both Grif and Simmons are aware of this fact.

Aware does not mean alarmed. Grif shrugs. “Yeah.”

“It’s yours,” Simmons says and drops into the empty chair next to Grif. “Why was your feather in my bed, Grif?”

Grif opens his mouth – not to answer, not when Simmons is in this easy position to be riled up – but doesn’t get the chance to speak as Sarge enters the room, fully armored and guns loaded. Chances are he’s been birdwatching with the sniper rifle since before the sun stood up. There can only be one vulture in this gulch. And if he happens to shoot a Blue while up and about, no harm’s done.

As always, the tip of Sarge’s enormous wings makes sure to knock against Grif’s head, causing him to spill his coffee all over the table.

“Is my presence required for this?” Sarge asks, head turned towards Simmons who grows flustered under the attention.

“Uhm. No?”

“Good,” Sarge says and leaves as quickly as he came. Probably gone to spy on more birds.

The moment it’s just the two of them, Grif nods in relief. They’ve only been stuck in Blood Gulch for a few weeks, but Grif has already learned to keep a distance from their superior. “Nice,” he says and drinks what little coffee is actually left in his cup.

“The feather,” Simmons says and waves said object back and forth. It’s not even a long one, barely the size of his little finger. Grif wonders how he’d react if he’d found a freaking primary under the blanket.

“Yeah.” Grif stares into the bottom of his cup. “What if it wasn’t?”

“What?”

“What if it wasn’t in your bed?”

“That’s where I found it.”

“Well, what if it wasn’t my feather?”

“Look at it.” Simmons shoves it at his face so he can see the split end and the bent shaft. “It looks like it hasn’t been groomed in years!”

Grif doesn’t say Simmons might just have sat on it. “It’s not mine.”

Simmons squints. “It isn’t Sarge’s colors.”

“Well, fuck,” Grif says and throws his feet on the table, right next to his bowl of porridge that’s grown cold. It’s okay, he didn’t enjoy the taste anyway. “Someone, tell Sarge to mark this in his diary: there’s been a spy in Red Base.”

“Just admit that it is yours!”

“But what if it isn’t?”

“It is!”

“What if it’s yours?”

“Look at it!” The feather’s so close to Grif’s face, he goes cross-eyed when he tries to stare at it. “It’s mangled! Mine don’t look like that.”

Grif winces. He doesn’t say anything, even though he could.

Simmons takes his silence as an insult anyway and pulls away with his nose tilted upwards. “I care about my wings, Grif. This is yours.”

He lets go of the feather that slowly falls to land inside Grif’s empty coffee cup.

Grif’s eyes don’t follow it. He stares at Simmons instead. “I’m just warning you now. Blue. Spy.”

* * *

Grif has come far in life by lying. This far, actually. There is much to complain about, sure, but including a shitty boss and a base with broken A/C, but he is doing better than he would have dared to hope five years ago.

Sometimes, however, lies backfire.

This is one of those times.

In order to catch this so-called spy, Simmons insists on lying in wait behind Grif’s bed, ready to catch an intruder that dares to step inside.

“It’s a good plan,” Simmons says and prepares himself to stay awake the entire night.

He wakes up with his face buried in golden and brown feathers. His joyful exclamation is choked in his throat when he realizes he’s fallen asleep on top of Grif’s ridiculously soft wings.

“Gah,” Simmons says and pulls back. Sticky down cling to his forehead.

With a yawn, Grif rolls over and pulls his wings closer. The colors range from deep brown to golden like honey. The tips of the wings are the lightest, almost yellow.

“Morning,” Grif says and slams his face against the pillow.

Simmons wonders if he knows his wings are softer than the pillow.

“Preen your wings,” Simmons snaps and storms out of the room.

* * *

The peace lasts until the very same afternoon where Simmons’ shriek fills Red Base.

“How?!”

He comes rushing out of the bedroom, clutching his newfound price.

Grif faces him with the calm of someone who’s honestly only half-awake.

“Two new feathers, Grif!” Simmons says with an agitated look in his eyes. His wings appear to be twice the size than usual, with the feathers all puffed up like that. They hover over his back like a darkish red shadow. “Did you nap in my bed again?”

“No.”

“Where were you? Sarge couldn’t find you for morning practice.”

“Oh yeah. How are the backflips going?”

Their Sergeant’s newest obsession is midair dodges. Useful, sure, but last time Grif tried to follow Sarge’s instruction, he almost twisted a wing. And Grif is _good_ at flying. It’s not his fault that Sarge is miscalculating gravity, maybe (probably) on purpose.

“Where were you?” Simmons repeats himself because no one actually knows where Grif fled to during practice.

“Nowhere.”

Simmons squints and then shoves the feathers against Grif’s chest. “Leave my bed alone, Grif.”

* * *

“Which MRE would you like, Grif?” Sarge asks innocently and threateningly as they gather around the base’s table for dinner.

Grif, busy with scratching the sore spot the armor always leaves on his shoulder blades where the wings sprout, looks up at him in surprise. “Uhmm,” he says, frowning. “Brisket?”

Sarge cackles.

A second later, and the cursed vegan MRE lands in front of Grif’s disappointed face. He sighs once and decides that eating it will still be better than going to bed hungry. “Well, at least you can only pull this one off once,” he mutters while mentally noting yet another way Sarge can torment him, something to stay wary of in the future.

“Watch me,” Sarge grins and begins to dig into the bag that should, supposedly, contain brisket.

“This is going on my complaint list!” Grif calls though he is slowly getting the feeling that Command doesn’t really care about all the violations their Sergeant has performed.

A rustle of feathers announces a third presence, and Grif turns in his seat to call, “Hey, Simmons, do you wanna trade?”

Simmons is twirling yet another feather between his finger while absentmindedly grabbing the one MRE Sarge has left behind on the counter.

“Are you molting?” The accusation is accompanied by a suspicious glare. Simmons’ fingers twirl a mangled feather.

Tension builds quickly. A molt sucks for everyone, not just the person the feathers are attached to.

Grif shudders at the thought. “Urgh. No!” he shakes his head for emphasis. He still remembers the itch from his last molt. It haunts him like invisible fingers raking down the spots he can’t reach. “No. Trust me, I’d know.”

Simmons stares at him for too long, and then he turns his head to look at their sergeant instead. “Sarge, I know I already asked, but I did some calculations, and with some restacking, I really could fit all the grenades in the empty medical locker, and you wouldn’t know the difference! Then Grif could sleep in the supply closet, and we would keep his dirty feathers contained.”

“My grenades do not appreciate a stranger’s touch,” Sarge says after a moment of consideration. “But I’ll consider it.”

Simmons nods and from the corner of his eye, he sees Grif reaching out to steal his meal. “Stop it,” Simmons hisses and smacks him across the hand with the feather.

* * *

In the end, it is decided that in order to clear his name Grif must sleep in the armory, far away from the sleeping quarters he shares with Simmons. The floor is cold and hard, but it’s better than the closet filled with grenades. Grif is very sure those would be uncomfortable to sleep on top of, even with his wings serving as a ready-to-go mattress.

Grif rests his head on top of his own feathers and lets the exhaustion after a long shitty day drag him under. He has fallen asleep in worse places than the floor, and at least there won’t be a surprise explosion in this room. Unless the Blues try to ambush them again, of course.

Waking up to Simmons shrieking is nothing new, but this time, Simmons’ voice manages to crack five times in a single word.

“ _How_?!”

Simmons is furiously pulling three new dark feathers from the sheets. They don’t belong to him. He knows that; he knows his wings so well, every perfectly groomed feather. They seem looser these days. It’s probably the stress of Grif invading his bed despite all the safety measures. Just what is his teammate trying to do? Build a nest?

A rustling from the corner of the room gave Simmons something to focus his frustrations on. He’d told Grif to stay away from the room – for Grif’s own sake, of course. If he was innocent, there’d be no dirty feathers in Simmons’ bed, but lo and behold, new feathers.

“Grif, I told you to stay out,” Simmons hisses, and then he tilts his head in confusion when he realizes the noise is coming from the vent. Grif couldn’t fit in there, could he? “Grif?”

Simmons shrieks again. The shriek, however, is soon joined by the sounds of flapping wings. Two pairs of wings, actually. Simmons’ and the bird that’s currently trying to pluck out his eyes.

“Bird! Biiird!”

As Simmons unfolds his delicate wings to shield himself, Grif appears in the doorway to take in the scene. He nods towards the blackbird that is still trying to find a way to get to Simmons’ terrified face. “Oh yeah. Those have feathers, too.”

Ten minutes later, when Simmons has abandoned all dignity and hidden under his bed, Grif takes pity on him. He shoos the bird out of Red Base and crosses his fingers that it won’t get shot by Sarge who’s out doing who knows what, and when Grif returns, Simmons has collected himself enough to help him clean out the bird nest from the vent.

Grif cradles the mess of stick and torn cloth and dark feathers against his chest and snorts in amusement. “So, now when you got rid of your roommate, can I move back in?”

Simmons doesn’t answer him.

“C’mon, Simmons, this is mine too.”

“Only half of it.”

“Geez, only child much?” Grif huffs and looks down at the tiny nest in his arms. “You suck at sharing.”

“And you- you suck at keeping your trash at your side of the room.”

(At this point, Grif doesn’t know that Simmons is, in fact, an only child, and that he grew up lonely in a too big room, and that when his father had told him that his flying was too slow and too sloppy, that his landing was awful and dangerous at best, Simmons hadn’t been sure who he was comparing him to.

Likewise, Simmons doesn’t know that Grif has a sister, and that they grew up nestled in each other’s wings, grooming and playing and fighting, racing to the top of the island’s mountains, testing their wingspan just an inch above the waves, and so Simmons doesn’t know how lonely it is now when no one will scratch those sore spots he can’t reach himself.)

Grif carries the nest outside, and after a moment of hesitation, he takes off and carries it to a ledge on the cliffs that create the gulch. Hopefully the bird will eventually find it. It seems like a waste of effort to simply throw it out.

His wings crack when he unfolds them, but it feels good. There’s an ease to his movements as he finally drifts down to land on top of Red Base. He is joined by Simmons who folds his wings the moment he’s reached the roof.

They stand there, watching the gulch they are supposed to conquer.

They don’t talk about Simmons kicking Grif out. Obviously, Grif has been welcomed back to his own bed, so what would the point be?

There are more interesting things to talk about.

“So what came first? Humans or birds?”

Simmons turns his head. The sun is reflected in his visor. “What?”

“Like, who invented the wings?”

“That’s not how it works!” Simmons says and his wings twitch in excitement over a harmless argument. The tips of his wings accidentally brush against Grif’s. “But birds. Birds came first. Then we evolved and grew like two extra limbs and thumbs and stuff.”

“What if we’d evolved from something else? Like fish?”

“Fish?”

“What if we were walking around with gills instead of wings?”

“Well,” Simmons says and thinks about it hard enough to frown inside his helmet. “We wouldn’t be walking. We’d be swimming.”

“Huh.” The wind plays with Grif’s feathers, and he leans his head back to fully enjoy it. “Imagine that.”

“Do you have more stupid questions, or can we shut up now?”

“Hmmmm.” Now it’s Grif’s turn to be thoughtful, to stretch the moment, and consider his next words. Something to keep Simmons lingering, something to make it last. When it feels good, it should continue; that’s Grif’s way of thinking. “Do you ever wonder why we’re here?”

Unbeknownst to both of them, this is when it begins.

* * *

“Well,” Grif says as the first one to speak after they’ve gathered around the surprise gift from Command. “That sorta sucks.”

“Grif, don’t be ungrateful. I’m sure this will be of much use.”

“We have wings, Simmons, why the fuck do we need a car?”

They all stare at the Warthog again. No one answers Grif’s question.

“Be sure to schedule writing a thank-you card for Command,” Sarge says, but his voice isn’t excited nor polite. “Red Team has proven worthy of their resources. A car and a rookie in one week. The abundance, the fanfare! Something to write about home, but Red Team’s mailbox’s already full. Damned catalogs and their seventy-four discount on group offers.”

“Is that how we ended up with a closet full of grenades?” Grif wonders out loud.

“Boom number thirty is free.”

“Oh.” Grif nods, thinking about whether or not the delivery man can be bribed, and then he freezes. “Wait, what?”

“Sarge got scammed,” Simmons explains in a whisper. “Respectfully.”

“No, the rookie part,” Grif says and that’s how they hear of Donut who moves in the following day.

Without discussing it, Grif and Simmons refuse to change their current sleeping arrangement.

Instead, they rearrange the grenades, and Donut gets to move into the closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Notes! Early birthday! Sorry, I wanted it out now, I'm too tired to wait till midnight.
> 
> Here's the wingfic that wouldn't leave my mind, and after months of considering whether or not to write it, here we are. Hope you like it. It'll be a long one, though chapters might be short with one specific focus. It'll be fun. Then comes the angst. But then comes the comfort.
> 
> The amount of foreshadowing I've forced into this chapter...
> 
> Don't worry, there will be proper descriptions of the different wings - I just felt like shoving it all into the first chapter would seem forced. So don't worry, you'll get to admire all of them - I might even doodle them. Blues will also appear, don't worry. And a lot of other characters.
> 
> As always, English isn't my native language, forgive me.


	2. Favors

Things change after Donut moves in.

Most people would call it a gradual change. Red Team would not.

In their humble opinion, it’s all rather drastic. The ironic thing is that it shouldn’t, in most cases, be a big deal.

But on the very first morning, when Donut steps out of the closer with both arms and wings stretched to wake up the muscles, his eyes widen at the sight of Grif who is drinking his cheerios straight from the bowl.

Donut might be a newcomer, but it shouldn’t be shocking by now. It’s Grif’s morning routine, along with the stale cup of coffee.

“Grif!” he gasps, mouth moving to cover his mouth in horror. “Your coverts!”

“What?” Grif blinks the sleep out of his eyes and looks over his shoulder just to see if his feathers are on fire or something. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. The dark feathers are a bit ruffled, but Grif was born like that. Or, maybe the Hawaiian wind did that. Either way, he doesn’t mind.

Donut obviously does.

“Don’t you take a look in the mirror before you leave your bed?” Donut asks him and adds an extra sigh for the sake of melancholy on Grif’s behalf. “Let me fix that for you.”

Grif freezes in his chair.

“What?” Donut is looking like a kicked puppy, the question visible in his eyes.

Swallowing the milk in his mouth, Grif makes the decision not to choke to death on purpose to escape the situation. He doesn’t like the rookie, and no one can make him like Donut, but he doesn’t have to be _cruel_.

He has every right to be cruel, however, and Sarge sets a bad example.

Grif is not Sarge. He’ll get on Donut’s nerves one way or another, but Donut looks outright hurt, and, urgh, Grif hasn’t lost his conscience. _Yet_.

“Nothing,” Grif says and turns his chair so that Donut can stand behind him. “Just- don’t pluck me.”

Donut hurries over, and the smile has returned to his face. Grif, however, isn’t smiling. He wasn’t smiling before Donut disturbed his breakfast, but still, it doesn’t feel _right_.

It’s not like wing grooming should feel _right_ , but it shouldn’t feel _wrong_. It’s a part of life, just like plucking your toenails or brushing your hair or cleaning your nostrils. The thing is that wings need to be groomed or things get _bad_. And wings, lovely as they are, tend to be _big_ , so you need an extra hand.

That’s how humanity has survived so far.

It’s something that just has to be done. If you don’t scratch a fellow back, who’s gonna scratch yours?

Even back in Basic there’d been an understanding of the necessity. Feathers tended to get ruffled after a long day of either: a) eating dirt, or b) licking boots. So without any unnecessary comments, people would help each other out at the end of the day, because no one wants to be the guy with an itch that can’t be scratched. Or the one with mites. Oh god, Grif still remembered that one guy in his platoon who got mites, and Grif does not know what happened to the guy, because Grif did have enough self-respect to stay the fuck away from him.

Wing grooming isn’t supposed to be a big deal. And it hadn’t been.

Until one of the first days in Blood Gulch where Grif’s left wing had been an absolute bitch as they were getting out of their armor, and Grif, sitting in his bed, had given up after almost dislocating his shoulder, and turned towards his new teammate.

“Yo, Simmons?” he’d asked. “Help me out here?”

Simmons, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a worn _Flames and Feathers Volume 27_ t-shirt, glared at him. “What?”

“You fix my wings, I fix yours. Deal?” Grif had already turned his back to him, spreading out his wings until the left tip almost brushed against the wall.

“No,” Simmons said.

“Wha- No?”

“I don’t want you to fix my wings.”

It’d been something about the way Simmons had said it. The casual rejection. It’d _hurt_ , and Grif had been annoyed by the fact. This hadn’t happened before.

This was new, so what had gone wrong? Were his wings that gross? Was there a gum stuck in it again? What had changed so that Grif was now painfully self-aware of every movement?

He’d folded his wings against his back, itch forgotten. “Well, way to make this awkward,” Grif had said, unsure of where to look. Simmons was a too distracting sight at the moment. “Alright. Forget I asked.”

“I didn’t-“ Simmons had been standing in the middle of the floor, inhaling sharply. One hand was playing with his own feathers. He’d looked more uncomfortable than Grif had felt. “I can still do yours.”

“Wha?”

“They look like they need it. Mine don’t need fixing. Yours are-“ Simmons had waved a hand at him, gesturing towards his wings. “I can help. Like you asked. Just. I just do yours.”

“Okaaay.” Grif frowned. This was supposed to be a favor for a favor thing. Did he owe Simmons anything if he helped him out? Grif liked to be debt-free, out of pure principle. His mother, being a perfectly bad example of how your life can turn out if you can’t keep a careful balance between not giving a shit and taking care of your own survival chances, hadn’t been debt-free. It’d become an early lesson for Grif. “Sure. Thanks.”

Grif had scooted over so that Simmons could sit behind him on his bed. It didn’t creak like it did whenever Grif placed his ass on it.

“Why are your feathers so greasy?” Simmons asked. Grif could feel the exact moment his fingers dug into his wings – they were fucking cold.

Grif resisted the urge to shudder and shrugged instead. Sure, he may not preen his wings every morning, and he didn’t spend his well-earned money on the stupid oils and shampoo and whatever people would drench their feathers in. But still – it wasn’t like he had freaking wing mites. It wasn’t that bad.

It just itched, and Simmons had been right there, and was that too much to ask for?

Simmons was surprisingly good at it, too. His fingers had been cold but gentle, and they were running down his feathers, adjusting them in the process.

“When was the last time you took care of the saddle joint?”

“Mhmm.” It was easy to ignore the sharp tone in Simmons’ question. It’d been so easy to just lie down so that Simmons could have freer movement, and Grif had buried his head against his pillow and had thought ‘this is nice’.

That was his last thought was a while.

He woke up by a sudden sharp pinching pain.

“Ow!” he’d groaned and jolted awake. Making sure to wear a sour expression, he’d turned his head to try to glare at Simmons who’d leaned away from him.

“Did you just fall asleep?”

“Well, no! Not with you plucking me!”

“Urgh. You’re done now.”

In a sudden hurry, Simmons had practically leaped to his own bed. Grif sat up and stared at the pile of brown feathers Simmons had left on his sheet. “Wow,” Grif had said, tilting his head. Apparently, Simmons had gotten rid of any feather deemed unworthy. Some of these could have been fixed – or ignored. They couldn’t all have been that loose. If so, that was a warning sign of another molt, and Grif didn’t count on that pain-in-the-ass for at least the next half a year. “You really were ruthless.”

“Did your wings need grooming or not?” Simmons had grumbled.

“Not complaining, dude, it’s just- More than I’m used to.” The itch was gone. Instead, his wings had felt _nice_. Grif ran a finger down his right wing, wondering if it felt softer. “Well, to turn down the awkwardness, let me know when you want the favor returned.”

“Right.”

“In case you need it.”

“I won’t,” Simmons said firmly. “Does it look like I need it?”

Grif had taken a while to reply. The thing is: Simmons has great wings. Like, the first time Grif saw Simmons he hadn’t felt bad about staring, because no one can look at those wings and not think ‘God, I wish that was me’. It’s almost surreal, seeing a nerd plastered to wings that look like they belong in a magazine.

They’re slim, dark, and shiny. It’s a good thing that Simmons is tall because they’re so long they almost touch the ground. Grif had thought a long time about what bird he could compare them to. A swallow, maybe? They have the elegance, but the colors are different. Black with dark red streaks. In perfect symmetry, of course.

The light practically bounces off them. Like silk.

Not a feather out of place.

“No. No, they look great. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Whatever,” Simmons had said and crawled under the blanket. Grif hadn’t asked him to touch his wings again after that.

So now, with Donut’s fingers in his wings, Grif tries his best not to think too much about Simmons and his stupid perfect wings.

“Is that some gold I spot?” Donut purrs, going in deep. “Look at you hiding your true colors under all that fluff!”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Grif grumbles and wonders if Donut will ever let go of him. Grif’s wings don’t look like they belong to a model, and Grif is happy about that. He likes his wings. They weren’t ugly. They’re plain, yeah, that’s the word to describe them. Brown feathers, sometimes a bit sandy during the summer sun, and then, sometimes, a few of them can be called golden. They are rare, though, and often hidden beneath coverts.

Against Donut’s lovely lightish red (pink) wings, so puffy they look like the pillows Kai had covered her bed with when she’d turned thirteen, Grif look boring. But his wings are big and they are soft and Grif likes to use them as a pillow, so he has no complaints.

“That color better be red,” Sarge calls out, entering the kitchen.

Grif fights against the urge to draw back his wings before his sergeant can try to pluck them.

“I could take care of yours too, Sarge!” Donut offers. “Just to make sure those speckles aren’t bloodstains.”

To be honest, Sarge wouldn’t really care if that’s the case. The big vulture wings grow progressively more red towards the tips.

Grif tries to sit up but Donut’s hands won’t let him.

“I am not done with you yet, Mister!” he scolds him. “I have just the oil to bring forth that gold. A trim would help, too.”

“I think I’m fine,” Grif says and manages to wriggle free. “Thanks, Donut.”

“Happy to help! And don’t think I’ve forgotten _you_ , Simmons.”

Grif spins around. He hasn’t heard Simmons enter.

The nerd looks just as offended as when Grif had offered to help.

“Me?” he gasps. “My wings are fine.”

“They are _gorgeous_. Such glamorous colors, albeit a bit dark. Nice shine, though. I’d love to dig my fingers into those feathers.”

“Right.” Simmons looks as if he might just run from the room. Grif wouldn’t put it past him. “No. I mean, later. When the Blues aren’t attacking the base.”

“I knew it!” Sarge basically flies from his seat towards the exit, grabbing his shotgun in the process. “s’been too quiet.”

“I mean, they are probably sleeping because they don’t have anybody screaming at them to wake up at 5 fucking am to fly around the base for ‘target practice’,” Grif says and barely expects a response.

“I’m not too sure,” Simmons says and tries to fake a thoughtful expression. Somehow, Sarge buys it, but it’s just the bloodthirst that comes from hearing the word ‘blue’. “I think I heard some flapping just before.”

“I don’t know, Simmons,” Grif says and rolls his eyes. “Might just be a blackbird.”

“Shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the great response on the first chapter! Finally, some good descriptions of Red Team wings! And tiny hint of a ghsot of a plot. hope you all enjoyed!


	3. Race

You could hold a gun to Grif’s forehead, and he’d still refuse to say that he likes Blood Gulch. The place isn’t even pretty. It’s barren and brown, and Grif shouldn’t be complaining about color considering his own wings. The good thing about Blood Gulch, however, is the lack of trees.

It makes it easier to fly freely, no obstacles to avoid. That reminds him of the sea back home where one could hover over the waves forever, and the wind would carry one when you got tired.

Grif had spent hours like that, Kai above and below him as they raced back and forth.

The wind is picking up, playing with his feathers. He can feel the tremor travel through his wings, leaving an itch behind. They want to spread. He wants to fly.

Simmons is standing next to him, glancing at what has to be nothing because this canyon is empty as shit. Grif follows his stare for a while, confirming that absolutely nothing is going on despite Sarge’s worries, and clears his throat.

“I guess I should ask you if you wanna race.”

The maroon helmet turns towards him. “You guess?”

“I dunno.” Grif shrugs and the itch spreads. “S’just the scene. Makes you feel like it’s something you should say.”

“You wouldn’t race,” Simmons says. “You barely even managed to fly up here.”

“Ah, fuck you. There’s a difference between couldn’t and wouldn’t. I’m the difference. I could race you to Blue Base and back, but I wouldn’t.”

“Because we’d get shot at, or because you don’t want to move that far?”

“The second one. Their aim isn’t that good.”

“Who would win?” Simmons asks. His head is tilted now, a clear sign of the evidence Grif has been baiting. “In this hypothetical race of yours, who’d win?”

Simmons might be smart most of the time, but the intelligence carries an ago. The question should be easy. “Me,” Grif snort.

“Please. We both know you wouldn’t. That leaves me the winner.”

“Ah. That’s a daydream.”

“No. It’s theory. All statistic based.”

Grif doubts all things are accounted for in those statistics. Here’s the thing. Grif’s wings aren’t pretty. But they are big and sturdy, and Grif knows they can carry his weight. Simmons’ wings are perfect, but where’s the wingspan? Beauty doesn’t make you faster.

“C’mon. Wings that pretty don’t carry you far.”

“You think my wings are pretty?”

“No,” Grif says and is surprised he didn’t just bite off his own tongue instead. He shifts his wings, feathers brushing against the back of his helmet. “I think they’re stupid. And slow. And you’re too afraid to prove me wrong.”

“I- _My wings are better than yours_.”

“Right.” It takes a few seconds before the entirety of Grif’s wings are unfolded. If the sun had been shining, they would cast a shadow big enough to embrace both himself and Simmons. Size matters. Suck on that. There’s a smirk behind Grif’s helmet as he spreads his primaries as far as possible for the most satisfying stretch. “And just why is that?”

Simmons is lucky that his helmet hides the jealous expression Grif knows he is wearing.

“Because I take care of mine, and you don’t,” Simmons says and crosses his arms. “If you get mites I will strangle you in your sleep.”

“As if Sarge wouldn’t beat you to it.” Grif shrugs him off. When he’d joined the army, he’d supposed he’d end up dying in his sleep. Or maybe he’d just hoped for it. It seemed like a better way to go than body-explosion by grenade.

The wind is picking up.

“So. You really up for it?”

Simmons’ helmet tilts in the other direction now. “What?”

“The race.”

After a short hum, Simmons takes just one step closer to the edge of the roof. “You do realize your weight slows you down.”

“Good thing I don’t have freaking hummingbird wings, then,” Grif says.

By instinct, Simmons fluff up their feathers. It’s pathetic – it doesn’t even make them look that much bigger. It just makes him look pissed.

Grif can _feel_ Simmons’ glare through the visor.

“Fine,” Simmons says and spread his wings. The right tip brushes against Grif’s chest plate as he steps forward. He pretends not to stare, though it’s tempting to count the red spots on Simmons’ coverts.

“To Blue Base and back?” Grif says because such a stupid idea is only fun if he can drag Simmons into it. The wind is begging for him to take off already.

“If they snipe you, I’m leaving you to bleed out.”

“Fair.”

“Three- Two-“

The sky groans, and heavy raindrops splatter against their armor plates. They both look up at the dark cloud.

“Never mind,” Grif says. The itch is gone, replaced with a sudden urge to get inside.

“Yeah. Urgh. I’m heading back inside,” Simmons says, already leaping over the edge to land with a grunt.

“Don’t let it go to your head but: good idea, Simmons.”

Sarge and Donut are both right inside, perfectly dry. Grif hates them both.

He doesn’t even get the chance to dry off his feathers before Sarge makes his life worse.

“Grif. Blues have been acting real suspicious. I need you to do recon their main Base.”

“They only have one base! And it’s all the way across the Gulch! You haven’t seen them do shit; you don’t know what they’re up to. Sir.”

“Exactly! A sudden drop in visibility! Real suspicious.”

Simmons is already peeling off armor plates, and no one is telling him to do shit.

Now it’s Grif’s turn to fluff his feathers in irritation. He hates when it happens. Kai used to pat his wings in a condescending comfort.

“That’s called the rain!” he hisses. “It’s _raining_ outside!”

Pink enters his field of view. “Grif,” Donut says, tsking. “Do you mind? I just cleaned the floor.” He gestures towards the small puddle under Grif’s wings that grows steadily with every falling drop of water.

Grif flips them off. “I hate all of you,” he says and is sure to shake his wings before leaving.

Donut shrieks as the droplets are sent flying in his direction. “Hey!”

It’s raining harder outside.

At least Grif doesn’t have fancy-ass wings that need constant grooming and are flashy and shiny and _perfect_. Like Simmons'. He will survive this, even though every minute outside makes him more cold and wet.

He’s already planning his revenge. He’ll be sure to steal MRE’s from the kitchen tonight when everyone’s sleeping. After this extra exercise, he deserves it.

The rain makes everything grey. (Is this how Kai feels?)

There’s nothing to see. Why would anyone be out here? The only reason Grif is out here is because Sarge hates him. The Blues would be stupid to be outside.

Too bad the Blues are in fact stupid.

Grif doesn’t realize he’s come too close to the Blue Base before the gunshot rings out. The doesn’t hit him, as usual, but he does swear and prepare for a second bullet. The wet feathers are pulling him down, and to save himself the extra effort, he lets gravity do its work and swerves downwards as the Blue takes another shot.

It’s a surprise when there’s suddenly ground under his feet. Turns out the Blue is even more surprised as Grif makes a rough landing on the roof next to him.

“Holy shit!”

Despite the heavy rain, Grif sees the color blue and the glint of the sniper rifle, and yep, now’s the time to leave. He flaps his wings once, but before he can take off, his foot slips on the wet metal.

Grif goes over the edge of the roof and lands face first in what appears to be a big cloud of white feathers.

The cloud moves and Grif falls from it, landing butt-first in the mud.

He groans before weakly raising a hand. “Hi, Caboose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I did a serious edit in the last chapter because I did a brainfart. I compared Simmons' wings to the one's of "swale" - I meant "swallow". This was my inner Dane acting up. Cross my heart, this a real story: four years ago, when I had to pass my English translation exam with no aiding tools, I had to translate the Danish word "Svale" which in fact means "Swallow" but I've never ever heard of this, so my brain panicked and wrote "Swale". Still got A, though. Anyway, as I wrote the last chapter I actually remembered this incident and my brain literally went: "hah, remember that exam where you wrote Swale? Good thing you know it's called a Swallow now!" and then freaking proceeded to write Swale. I didn't even realize before a comment pointed it out. Thanks for that!
> 
> Things are rather tense. I had to send in my manuscript last weekend, but due to new restrictions, the actors will first work on it in late Spring, which is fine. Then I have way too many exams, and sadly, a lot of family illness. Still waiting for corona test results for grandma and sister. Cross your fingers for us. Take care.
> 
> Now it's the time for description of the Blues, but yes, Caboose has the fluffiest wings.


	4. Dry

More mud splashes against Grif’s visor when the Blue from the roof lands right next to them. His grey wings blend in well with the rain that’s _pouring_ now, and while the armor protects most of his body against the aggressive rain, Grif feels absolutely soaked. Why is Blood Gulch only hot and dry when you’re already sweating?

“Wait. You guys actually caught a Red?”

Grif knows that voice. It’s Tucker. The cockbite. The nickname had come naturally since the flashy bastard has elements of cock in his feathers. The same God that had made Grif’s wings bland enough to blend into grains of sand had given Tucker wings that match the tail of a peacock. Blue, green, and aqua colors are proudly shown off. Tucker’s wings are bright, flashy, and rare, and worst of all: the Blue is very much aware of all this. Grif has heard him boast from the other side of the canyon. Even in the haze of the rain, the colors stand out.

“Told you – only Reds are stupid enough to be out in this weather.”

“Huh,” Tucker says, raising his own gun. “Guess you didn’t waste your time standing on guard.”

“Yeah,” Church says, smirking so hard they can _feel_ it. “Guess that makes me _right_ then.”

“Shut up.”

Grif removes his focus from the two squabbling Blues to the one Blue who is actually paying him any attention. Caboose is hovering above him, head tilted in curiosity. The white fluffy wings gather behind his helmet like a cloud on a sunny day.

“Hello.”

“Ow,” Grif says dully, embracing the pain in his buttocks from his less-than-graceful fall. The pain flees to torment his arms instead – Caboose reaches out, grabs him by his elbows, and lifts him into an upright position. “Ow,” Grif says again, this time blaming Caboose’s unnecessary strength.

At least now the others become aware of Grif’s suffering.

“Caboose, don’t hug the spy,” Tucker says in a defeated sigh.

Church, however, never lowers his weapon. “What the fuck are you up to Red?”

“Spreading misery, I guess.”

“Knew it.”

Maybe that’s Sarge’s plan all along. To use Grif to lure out the Blues so they could also be wet and cold and miserable.

If that’s the case, it’s working perfectly.

“We shooting him or not?”

“Caboose, step away from him. You don’t know where he’s been.” Church is flailing his sniper rifle again, and Grif, knowing fully well it’s loaded, can’t help but flinch. With this little distance between them, it doesn’t matter if the Blue has a shitty aim.

“The roof,” Caboose added helpfully. “He fell from the roof.”

“Yes, I know. Just-“

Grif doesn’t want to stick around until either a) Church pulls the trigger by accident, b) Church hits him over the head with the sniper rifle by accident, or c) Caboose squeezes the life out of him by accident.

Using his entire weight (and there’s a lot of it), Grif steps on Caboose’s left foot, and once his body is free, he shakes his wings. Mud flies from them, hitting everyone unfortunate enough to be standing close to Grif a.k.a. all the Blues.

Too busy wiping mud off their visors, the Blues can do nothing but yell as Grif takes off sprinting.

“ _Hey_!”

“Asshole.”

Tucker’s feathers stand on end, and the eyes on the turquoise wings watch Grif disappear into the grey mist of the rain. The lack of flying seems to confuse them, and Grif can hear them squabble for some seconds but no one follows him.

It’s not worth it. _He_ ’s not worth it.

It’s not that Hawaii didn’t have thunderstorms. It did. Plenty, in fact, and Grif had spent too many hours covering beneath a stupid palm tree in a weak attempt at finding shelter. Then he’d learned how lightning works. Not through experience, just the casual random documentary on tv after mom had fallen asleep on the couch.

At least the rain had been warm back home.

Grif takes off once, lets himself be carried by the wind, and falls downward to land in a puddle again. It’s not worth the effort. Besides, the Blue is probably firing stray shots at the sky. Or maybe Sarge is trying to shoot the bird again.

With his bad luck, Grif isn’t taking the chance.

The armor is digging into the down and skin where the wings connect to his spine. Back in Basic, they’d told him he’d get used to the sensation. Liars, the lot of them. The armor only seems heavier now.

Grif begins to it take off the moment he enters Red Base, helmet bouncing across the room. Fuck Donut’s newly-washed floor especially.

“Grif,” Sarge welcomes him, the only one still awake by now. “Did you see anything suspicious?”

“No,” Grif replies and can’t even find the strength to flip him off. “Couldn’t see shit.”

The bedroom is all dark, but Simmons is obviously still awake. When Grif falls face-first against his mattress, there’s a rustle followed by a judgmental voice.

“What are you doing?”

“Collapsing,” Grif groans into his pillow. “It’s been a shitty day, Simmons.”

It feels like forever since they were standing on the roof together, ready to take off. In reality, it’s just hours. Funny how time works like that. Grif blames the rain.

He doesn’t wonder what Simmons has been doing while he’s gone. Probably boring things. Like staying inside, all dry and warm, doing boring things all by his lonesome.

“You need to dry your wings,” Simmons says from across the room.

“Collapsing is a two-hand job, I’m all full.” His limbs are numb and itching at the same time. His armor plates are scattered across Red Base, but he’s still wearing his Kevlar and so he gets the pleasure of slowly feeling the cold seep through it. His wings are limb and wet and dripping over the side of the bed. Fuck today. Fuck Simmons. “Seriously, I’m half-asleep already, stop nagging me.”

“You’re not. You’re not even snoring yet.”

“’cause you keep talking.”

“Your mattress is getting _wet_.”

“Waterbed,” Grif groans and wishes that were the case. Then he’d have enough space to simply let his wings sprawl across the mattress. Back home, they’d put up a hammock between two tall palms. He’d fly up there and stare at the blue sky while letting the wind play with his limp wings.

In Basic, he’d been introduced to tiny cots that forced you to lie on your stomach, wings curled tight against your back. Pure torture.

Why had he even signed up for this?

“Your big fat wings are dripping on the floor!”

Maybe, one day, he could steal Simmons’ bed and push it against his own, and he’d finally have a soft surface big enough to be comfortable.

“Not my problem,” Grif says and closes his eyes. In the hammock, the wind would swing him back and forth, and even half-asleep, resting, it still felt like he was flying.

He should try to put up a hammock in Blood Gulch. But there are no palm trees, and he’d never have enough rope to let it hang between the two bases – the only actual objects in the canyon.

“It _is_ , though.”

Grif hears Simmons’ words and doesn’t reply. They can continue arguing in the morning. Maybe about wet wings. Maybe about something else. No need to worry – they’ll find something.

Just as he’s about to slip into the sweet unconscious that’ll be warmer and dryer than what he’s feeling right now, the fingers dig between his heavy feathers.

It takes a few seconds to acknowledge that _holyshitthenerdisactuallydryingoffhiswings_ , but by then the gentle touch and quiet cursing has nudged him into sleep.

The morning routine reveals nothing of the events from the night before. It’s pretty standard. The darkness is replaced with a close-up of Simmons’ face, shrieking, “Wake up, fatass!” By the time Grif is sitting upright, a blanket falling off his wings, Simmons has already left the room. Maybe a bit faster than usual this time.

Grif yawns and runs a hand through his left primaries. First then he remembers Simmons’ bitching from yesterday – and what it’d led to.

That’s a lot to think about before breakfast.

What a funny thing, to think of coffee and Simmons’ silky soft dark wings at the same time. And he hasn’t even touched Simmons’ wings yet.

He hasn’t had his coffee either, and at least he can do something about that. And if he refrains from stealing Simmons’ breakfast, he can stop feeling like he owes the nerd a favor.

There’s an itch on the broadest part of his wings, and Grif reaches a hand over his shoulder to reach the spot. There’s a stray thought whether or not Simmons would scratch it for him. Stupid thoughts. He needs coffee now.

As he stands up, a single dark feather falls from the bed to the floor. Too dark to belong to his own wings.

 _Oh hell yes_.

Sarge is outside (the gunshots in the distance revealing this), and the morning just got better. Not just _good_ , but _better_. It’s suspicious. Yesterday had been such a shitday, Grif feels like treading on thin ice right now. It can’t last.

“Morning,” Simmons mutters into his bowl of cereal. They're alone, since Donut is busy taking a shower (muffled singing through the wall revealing this). Grif breathes in deeply and casually walks towards the table where Simmons is sitting. All the bad luck from yesterday must have been saved up for this moment.

“Oh, Simmons,” Grif says and grins as he lets himself fall into an empty chair, “We need to barricade the base.”

“What?”

“Right away! Before it’s too late!”

“Why?”

“The enemy’s infiltrating us, Simmons!”

“What?”

“We need to lock the doors!”

“What about Sarge?”

“Every man for himself, Simmons.”

“I- You’re shitting me.”

Grif grins and holds up the black feather. “Found this in my bed! We need to prepare an ambush to protect my sacred place of sleeping. Or maybe call an exterminator.”

“Fuck you,” Simmons says and swipes the feather from his fingers.

With the biggest satisfied smile on his face, Grif leans back on his chair and throws his feet on the table. Now all he needs is some coffee. “That’s what you get for being in my bed.”

There’s a gasp.

They both turn around to stare at a half-naked Donut who dares to look less flustered than the two of them. With a towel around his midriff and another around his hair, he looks like a model for the newest lipstick as his mouth turns into a shocked ‘O’.

“Fuck,” Grif says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sis got corona, but has luckily recovered. Went on a two weeks holiday with literally no writing, however, I did make some concept drawings for the wings of Grif and Simmons. Will add the others as I get to it. You can see it HERE to.
> 
> In case the link doesn't work: https://riathedreamer.tumblr.com/post/638949459856850944/i-am-by-no-means-an-artist-and-i-cant-do


	5. Mornings

It shouldn’t be a surprise. Grif had early on concluded that Red Team consists of assholes, and now Donut is just showing his true colors. He’s enjoying this, finding pleasure in it.

Simmons has fled from the kitchen area a while ago, all flustered and sputtering and with red splotches crawling up his throat, and that leaves Grif to deal with the rookie. Usually, Grif would just leave it alone until the excitement died down, but Simmons had looked like someone had shat in his feathers, and Grif isn’t immune to feeling pity for the guy.

“C’mon, Donut.”

“Fine.” The new member tilts his head back and sniffs. “I just wish that I had someone I was that close with. None of you ever go deep enough when you take care of my wings.”

Grif can smell the shampoo Donut uses on his wings from here. It might be a pure competition between Donut and Simmons when it comes to the most well-groomed wings.

“Right. But it’s normal. Grooming each other’s wings. Not a big deal.”

Donut nods. “Right. Weird why Simmons doesn’t want us to do it.”

“Yeah.”

“But no one’s ever done it in my bed.”

“You sleep in a closet, Donut,” Grif points out sharply because while he is desperate to let this topic rest, he won’t be willing to give Donut a deep tissue massage at the end of this. “There wouldn’t be any room.”

“The broom does take up a lot of space,” Donut agrees, and then the thoughtfulness is replaced by that stupid sly smirk from before. “It’s rather intimate, sitting so close.”

“ _Donut_.”

“How did they feel, Grif? Simmons’ flashy, shiny feathers.”

Grif knows that Donut is teaching him, and while that is a brave move from the rookie, it annoys Grif how it manages to creep under his skin in a way that Donut can’t have expected. The problem is that Grif wishes he could answer that question. He’d wondered about it himself. Just how it’d feel to stick his hands into Simmons’ feathers. They look silky so they should be soft, but they aren’t fluffy like Caboose’s wings which have to be the softest thing Grif has ever had the displeasure of falling on top on.

And so Grif hesitates. “Uh-“

Donut huffs, pink feathers rising behind his back. “Fine. You can keep your secrets,” he says and _winks_.

Grif is beginning to understand why Simmons looked half-dead when he fled. “ _Donut_.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Who are you doing to gossip with? The Blues? Lopez?” The moment the name leaves his mouth, Grif almost chokes on a groan. That’s a suggestion, he realizes. “Don’t tell Lopez.”

As if he functioned on voice command, the robot enters the room. “No me importa.” [I do not care.]

“Like Lopez cares,” Grif continues and cannot help but stare at the metal wings. He isn’t as freaked out as the first time he saw them. It’s not that they’re ugly, he just doesn’t get why they work. They look like normal wings, except it’s smooth metal instead of soft feathers. Robot don’t need those, apparently. Or skill. It’s all small jet engines or something. Electricity and wires.

Grif can appreciate cars because it makes transporting stuff less of a bitch. He can even tolerate spaceships because of the distance and, well, space between planets. But Lopez’s metal wings look like the edges are sharp enough to cut Grif, so he knows to stay away.

“Yo no.” [I do not.]

Donut slings an arm around the robot. “Don’t worry, Lopez, I’ll make sure to squeeze out all the juicy details.”

With a final sigh, Grif gives up and turns away to go and hide with Simmons. He steps into their shared bedroom just in time to see a dark flash of movements as Simmons tucks his wings behind his back.

Obviously annoyed – no, _pissed_ – at being disturbed in the middle of preening, Simmons hisses, “ _Knock_.”

“It’s my room too, asshole,” Grif says and the door closes behind him. “Anyway, Donut is shutting up. Or speaking Spanish which no one but Lopez gets anyway.”

Simmons’ face looks slightly less red. Still all flustered, and while Grif can only see the top of his wings peeking from behind his shoulders, Simmons’ feathers look ruffled compared their usual smoothness.

“I’m not drying your wings again, fatass,” Simmons then says. “Even when you’re too lazy to do it.”

“It’s not my fault.” Grif is annoyed now – first at Donut, now at Simmons who can’t appreciate how Grif spent minutes of his life trying to get Donut to shut up. “I didn’t ask you to. I was sleeping. I’m the innocent party in this.”

“You could just have dried your own damn wings.”

“Or you could have left my wings alone!” Grif argues, crossing his arms. “I don’t fondle your wings at night.”

Something in Simmons’ expression changes. It seems to waver at first before hardening, wings growing in size as he puffs his feathers. “ _Well_. None of that matters! You’re the one who had to make _suggestions_ while Donut was around.”

“Donut triggers misconceptions with his mere presence. Again. Not my fault.”

“You could have kept your mouth shut. Or at least keep it useful.”

Grif blinks, barely holding back laughter. “You want my mouth to stay useful?”

Then, through the wall: “Ooh!”

“DONUT!” they both yell in unison, spinning around to face the closed door.

They stay quiet for some long seconds, just to be sure, and when Simmons speaks, his voice is hushed, “Keep it shut or keep it stuffed. Pretty sure you prefer the last option, fatass.”

Knowing just how close they’ve pushed Simmons to the breaking point, Grif doesn’t say anything. He does, however, flip Simmons off as he grabs a Twinkie from his bed table and marches out of the room.

He passes Sarge on the way out of Red Base. “I’ll take roof watch, Sarge,” he says without turning his head.

“Do try to get shot.”

“Noted.”

He flies to the roof with a few basks of his wings. It’s a good thing he isn’t wearing his helmet. Well, it’s unpractical if the Blues start shooting at him, but it makes smoking a cigarette way easier.

By the time that he’s halfway through the cigarette, the itch on his saddle joint has become too much to ignore, and he almost drops his smoke as he reaches over his shoulder to deal with it.

When Grif pulls his hand back, he hears it. A shuffling of feathers indicates he won’t be alone for much longer. Grif keeps his eyes on Blue Base, even when Simmons is finally standing next to him.

“You forgot this,” Simmons says and throws another snack cake at him.

It bounces off Grif’s visor and he bends over to pick it up. It’s fine. He can recognize a peace offering when he sees one.

There’s silence while Grif eats, but that doesn’t take long, and even then, he doesn’t know what to say. So when a dark spot crosses the sky, he’s grateful for the distraction.

“Oh look. There’s your friend,” he says and points at the flying blackbird. It’s easy to spot against the blue sky. All the rainclouds from yesterday are gone.

“Shut up,” Simmons huffs but it doesn’t come out as angry as before. “You know your teasing isn’t even working-“

“I wasn’t teasing. Just stating a fact,” Grif says and lights another cigarette. “I’m just delighted by the wonderful nature and how Sarge hasn’t managed to shoot it with a missile yet.”

Simmons tilts his head. “True.”

“Way of life, huh.”

“Yeah.”

Bird poop splatters against Simmons’ visor.

“Beautiful,” Grif says and inhales again.

* * *

The mood has improved the following morning. Simmons doesn’t hiss at him again. Instead, Simmons wakes up extra early (Sarge is usually the earliest to stand ready on the roof with his shotgun, and Simmons has always tried to follow his example. Then came Donut who has a three-hour wing care routine ever morning.) so that it is very, very evident that he and Grif haven’t shared a bed since Grif is still fast asleep and Simmons is awake and ready to trash-talk him.

At least, that’s what Grif thinks his plan is. He falls back asleep after Simmons has left, and an uncertain amount of time later, the faint echo of Sarge’s gunshot wakes him up again. With a yawn, he sits up and stretches his wings so he can dig in his fingers and scratch along the bone.

Eventually, Grif joins Simmons on the roof. Mainly to get out of Sarge’s sight after the Sergeant goes back into the base for breakfast.

It’s clear Simmons has a stick up his ass. The guy is standing so straight it looks like his back might snap if he tries to improve his already perfect gesture. His wings are so small, tucked in so they are as slim as possible, just a black line against the maroon armor. Their length cannot be denied though, the tip swaying in the breeze just before they can touch the concrete beneath them.

Grif remembers this guy from his childhood, a faceless bully with pretty wings, all gold and silver that he kept shoving in their faces. He’d never miss an excuse to spread his wings. Turned out they sucked ass for their game of tag. Not fast enough.

Simmons is different though. A proud asshole, sure, but not about the wings. Not like the cocky Blue.

It all just makes Grif wonder about certain things.

He clears his throat. “So about that race…”

“What race?”

“The one that didn’t happen.”

“Oh. What about it?”

“Still up for it?”

Simmons shifts. It takes another second before he tears his eyes away from the enemy base in the distance to glare down Grif. “Aren’t you too lazy to race?” he asks, but it comes out as a statement.

He isn’t totally wrong.

“Yeah,” Grif says and drops the idea. It’s fine. His legs are still sore from the day before yesterday. He deserves a week of doing nothing. With or without Simmons.

* * *

In fact, he almost dislocates his shoulder later that day, right before it’s time for bed, when he’s trying to reach that one itchy spot that’s driving him insane.

Simmons stares at his humiliating stance – arms crooked, shirt lifted, stomach exposed – and asks, oddly curious, “How do you even get to the bottom of it?”

Grif’s fingers stop twitching, still out of reach. “What?”

“Your wings. When they’re, you know-“

“Fluffy?”

“I was gonna say big. Or fat.”

Grif could take offense to that. He doesn’t. Instead, he smirks and unfolds his wings so they almost smack Simmons across the face in their glory.

Simmons pushes some feathers away from himself. “And smelly,” he adds, wrinkling his nose.

Grif snorts and shakes his wings to deal with the itch before sitting down on his bed. It doesn’t help much. “Well, I had a sister,” he says. “She got wings bigger than mine. We helped each other out, you know.”

The thing is, Simmons probably doesn’t know these things. Grif has the feeling that he’s been taking care of the wings on his own for a while now.

Simmons blinks, surprised by an honest answer. “Oh. Yeah.”

“I wonder who gets to deal with her stupid wings now,” Grif says and lies down, hoping to squeeze his wings under his weight so they grow numb and stop itching. “She’s tried it all. Stickers, dye, that stupid glitter phase.”

An amused snort comes from Simmons’ side of the room. “I remember that.”

So does Grif. A true horror show. Especially when you add Kai’s colorblindness on top of things. The memories make him shudder. Then he tries to imagine Simmons covered in glitter.

“Tried it?”

“Fuck no,” Simmons says, still grinning. “She’s a teen?”

“Was. I think. I don’t know if she still counts.” It’s weird. When Grif thinks of Kai, it’s usually Kai in his memories, back before things went to shit. She’s so small in those. “Little sister, anyway. Stupid one. Once dropped that fucking glitter on me.”

“Oh god.”

“Took months to get rid of,” Grif explains. “Probably super shitty for the ocean as well, but most of it got stuck in the plastic bottles already drifting around.”

“I think Donut has some wing glitter,” Simmons says thoughtfully.

It doesn’t surprise Grif. Donut has so many bottles of wing care that Grif has lost count. He doesn’t need that stuff, anyway. That trend was years ago, though. But maybe Donut is awful enough to try and bring it back.

“Fuck no.” One thing is lotion, or that weird perfume that smells like plums. But glitter is unforgivable. “Maybe we should make that thing disappear before he knocks it over by accident.”

“Maybe we could use it against the Blues,” Simmons suggests, and Grif could kiss him.

He turns over to send him a genuine smile. “I like your train of thought, Simmons,” he tells him. “I’m sure Sarge would appreciate chemical warfare.”

Simmons returns the smile, just briefly, before they turn off the light.

* * *

The morning is the same as the one before.

Simmons is gone when Grif wakes up. He yawns, stretches, scratches.

It _itches_.

Feathers get stuck between his fingers, and against the almost yellow color, he sees them. Tiny small dots. Moving.

Mites.

“Oh fuck no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had much fun with this chapter. Or just the overall fic. Haven't had the time to do more illustrations, will try to do so soon.  
> I've finished the final exams of this semester, so until summer, it's just me in my apartment, working on my master's thesis. I hope this independent surroundings can give more time for fics, though I have big plans for original writings as well. Another short-story's getting published next month, though I wrote it like a year ago, but covid slowed everything down.
> 
> Take care and stay safe! Comments make my day!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, English isn't my native language, and you can find me as RiaTheDreamer on tumblr and twitter.


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